Petals Fallen
by Lydia Theda
Summary: AU. Inspired by The Fictionist's "Kisses Cursed". It had been this way ever since she could remember. Every year, a new name, a new sacrifice. And every year the grisly evidence of what became of them. Hermione just hoped that her own death wouldn't be quite so gruesome.


"Hermione Granger."

Silence.

Hermione swallowed. Stared at Abraxas Malfoy, as if her gaze could somehow erase the words that had escaped the mayor's lips. Change what had just happened, so it wouldn't be her. She looked around, but no one would meet her eyes.

It was the first day of spring – the cursed, dreary not-winter that was all they ever had here – and the residents of Little Hangleton were gathered outside the Hanged Man's pub to determine this year's sacrifice. It was a blind drawing, names in a bowl for the mayor to choose every May. One small paper slip each, a scrawled signature from everyone in the village.

At least this year it wouldn't be another child.

"Hermione Granger?" Malfoy's voice jarred her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see him scanning the crowd. She took a shaky breath and stepped forward.

"I'm here, sir."

The mayor's gaze snapped to her. He nodded once before clearing his throat.

"You have twenty-four hours to settle your affairs and gather what belongings you may wish to take. Present yourself outside this pub no later than one hour past sunrise. If by mid-morning tomorrow you still have not shown up, we will search you out and take you to the Riddle House by force. I trust I do not need to explain the consequences to your family and to this village should you fail to arrive at the proper time?"

Abraxas Malfoy had given this same speech for over twenty years now, ever since their last mayor, Albus Dumbledore, had plucked his own name from the bowl. Each year, his voice became increasingly lifeless, as the victim list grew and more and more families lost their loved ones.

Hermione couldn't blame him. Malfoy's wife had been sent to the monster not long after he became mayor, leaving him alone to raise their then-five-year-old son. Each new death only served to plunge the town further into despair, and the offerings and their families had it the worst. No one who entered ever left alive, after all. But she couldn't back out.

"No, sir."

"Good. We shall see you tomorrow."

* * *

It had been this way ever since she could remember.

Every year, a new name, a new sacrifice. And every year the grisly evidence of what became of them.

Alastor Moody's eye rolled out from behind the gates a week after he was selected. Peter Pettigrew's mother got a box with her son's severed finger the year before that. And Regulus Black, just last year, shuffled out of the Riddle House with a smile on his face and his heart a gaping hole in his chest. His family hadn't been the same since.

Sometimes people tried to fight. When Gideon Prewett's name emerged from the glass bowl, his twin Fabian declared that he too would enter. It was thought that the brothers, well-renowned for their strength and courage, might be able to defeat the curse. The whole town turned out to watch them stride through the gates together, but they did not return.

Others thought to escape their fates – refusing to go, running away, anything to avoid entering the Riddle House – but it never went well. And the village paid the price.

When Hermione was eleven, the name that was called was that of Neville Longbottom. He was only nine months old. His parents balked, and although all of their friends attempted to convince them otherwise, Frank and Alice Longbottom barred themselves and their son in their cottage that very night. Tensions were high the next day, as the sun sank down toward the horizon and Neville still hadn't entered the gates.

The following morning, however, Alice and Frank were found propped up outside the Hanged Man, eyes blank. No awareness left. It was as if their souls had been torn from them, leaving behind only dry husks. Frank's elderly mother, Augusta Longbottom, was eventually summoned to take charge of the bodies. Nobody ever learned what had happened to Neville, and they had had to pick another victim that year too.

It wasn't as if fleeing helped either. Shortly after she turned six, the Lupin family packed up to leave Little Hangleton. They had barely crossed the border when a pack of wolves descended upon them, sharp teeth flashing in the starlight. Wolves didn't normally act like that, Hermione knew, but she supposed they too were cursed.

When the villagers cautiously approached the scene in the morning, they found only dried bloodstains on the frosted grass, and the Lupins' five-year-old son Remus with his throat torn out.

It was probably why Severus Snape, also five, hardly cried when his name was pulled a few months later. His mother had since become a shell of her old self, and she and her husband now drank constantly.

Hermione could only hope that her own parents wouldn't go the same way.

* * *

The waiting was the worst part.

Giving the doomed individuals an entire day to set their affairs in order, say their goodbyes, sounded generous in theory, but now that she was to be the offering, Hermione couldn't help but think it would have been better if she had been made to leave that night.

At least then she would be able to get it over with.

Instead she sat rigid in her chair, her parents' eyes averted and the three of them merely picking at their dinner. They hadn't said a word all afternoon, and neither had she. No one wanted to be the first to shatter the illusion of normality, as stifling as the current atmosphere was.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief when the doorbell rang, a soft chime that startled her nonetheless.

"I'll get it," she blurted, jumping up from the table and practically fleeing from the room. She opened the door to reveal Molly Weasley, who gave Hermione a watery smile and a crushing hug.

"Oh, you poor dear," she sobbed. Hermione grimaced; she had rather hoped the townspeople wouldn't offer her their pity. What did they think she could do with it? She patted the other woman on the back before carefully extracting herself from Molly's grasp.

"Thank you, Molly," she replied, and cast around desperately for something else to talk about. "How … how is Ronald?" Molly had given birth to her sixth son not two months ago. Hermione couldn't help but think it was only a matter of time before one of their names came out of the drawing pool. But the Weasleys had been lucky so far.

Molly chuckled, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her sleeve.

"Well, just yesterday Charlie tried to give him a toy, but of course Ronald dropped it right after. He was able to grab onto Arthur's finger, though. Arthur is over the moon, of course."

"Of course," Hermione murmured. What else could she say?

"Thank you for helping me watch my children, Hermione," Molly said a few beats later. "Arthur and I appreciated it very much. I know you had a lot of schoolwork, but the boys enjoyed your company. They said –" here she choked a little, "they said to say they'll miss you. Bill and Charlie helped me to bake these. And Percy made you this card." Molly handed her a plate of cookies and a piece of paper with a few scribbled stick figures in crayon.

Hermione's lips twitched, even as she blinked back a tear of her own.

"Well, be sure to tell them I'll miss them too."

Molly left soon after. It was clear that she didn't really know what to make of the situation – Hermione was the first victim Molly had been close to ever since her twin brothers had disappeared in their quest to face the monster.

Not fifteen minutes later, someone else knocked on the door. This time it was Hermione's best friend Lily Evans – now Potter – and her husband James. They'd married a year ago, and were expecting their first child in a few months. The three of them stood awkwardly in the hallway for a few minutes, none of them really knowing what to say.

James shuffled his feet for a while, before finally breaking the silence.

"Hermione … Lily and I were thinking of naming our child after you. Since … since you can no longer be the godmother."

She blinked. She was sure the shock showed on her face, as Lily reached out to squeeze her hand.

"We haven't decided on the exact name yet, and we know you well enough that we aren't going to use either of yours even if it's a girl. But we at least want to give him or her your initials. If you don't mind, of course?"

"I … no, I don't mind. But I thought you were going to use one of James' parents' names?" They'd been sacrifices too, years back.

James grinned sheepishly.

"Well, yeah, we were, but they sounded odd when we tried to make them first names, and we couldn't find a first name that worked with them as middle names. This way, the middle name will either be James or Jane, and Lily and I were at least able to agree on that, right Lils?" He poked his wife in the side, and Lily swatted his hand away, laughing.

"Stop it, James. But yes, Hermione. We both agreed, and it's the least we can do. And we'll look after your parents, as well."

The tragic fates of some other families flashed through Hermione's mind. The Snapes, drinking themselves to death. Argus Filch, who withdrew from society and named his cat after his dead fiancée. And Augusta Longbottom, whose son and his wife would never again respond to her care.

"Thank you both. I do appreciate it." And she did. "Are you going to ask Sirius to be the godfather, then?" The four of them had, after all, been very close friends.

Lily exchanged a look with James.

"We are. We're hoping it will at least give him something to live for, you know? Since Regulus died, he really hasn't been himself. And at least this way … if James or I are picked next year, or something …" Lily didn't bother continuing, but Hermione knew what she meant.

"Yeah."

They talked for a while more, unimportant subjects, as if it wasn't Hermione's last night in Little Hangleton. As if they didn't all know that she wasn't coming back. Eventually, Lily and James left, both giving her one last hug.

Pretending everything was normal was a good coping mechanism, Hermione mused. Maybe she could manage to keep herself from bursting into tears.

Many of the other residents of Little Hangleton came during the next hour or so, but Hermione didn't know them quite as well. A few of her classmates, who pressed a wrapped gift or a small basket into her hands as they mumbled their goodbyes. Some of her teachers, who like Lily and James promised to take care of her parents for her. She smiled and nodded and thanked everyone, and kept the polite mask up fairly well.

When the last visitor, Rubeus Hagrid, finally departed, night had truly fallen. Hermione was about to close and lock the door, when she noticed movement a little ways off. She squinted, trying to see into the shadows cast by the doorstep light. Eventually the shape resolved into the approaching form of Sirius Black, hands shoved into his pockets and staring at the ground.

"Sirius," she exclaimed, for although they had once been quite close, the other had not ventured far from the Black house in a year. "I didn't expect you to come."

Sirius shrugged. He still wouldn't look up. They stood there like that for a few minutes, neither of them saying anything.

Finally, Sirius glanced at her.

"Hermione," he said, voice shaking, "I – I'm sorry."

Hermione furrowed her brow. Was he trying to apologize for the last year, in which he and his family had been largely withdrawn? But that wasn't terribly unusual, and anyway Sirius and Regulus had always been very close.

"Sirius, it's fine. I know you were in mourning for Regulus –"

Sirius continued as though she hadn't spoken, tripping over his words in his haste.

"I was going to do this last year. But then Reg – then Regulus was picked, and our whole family, we just couldn't function. And I didn't want to subject you to that. So I was going to do it next week instead, but that really, that really … well, it isn't possible now." His voice had faded to a whisper by the end, and he had returned to staring at the ground.

Hermione didn't quite know what he meant.

"Sirius?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

The other didn't answer, merely pressed his lips together tightly, shaking his head so hard that his hair whipped across his face. He shoved a small item into Hermione's hands and wrapped her fingers around it, before running out into the night.

Hermione could only stare after him in bewilderment. Were those tears she had seen as he turned away? Well, she sighed, Lavender Brown was crying too when she came over, and Professor McGonagall had left blowing her nose. It didn't mean anything in particular, not tonight.

Eventually, her gaze drifted down to the little box she was holding, wrapped in silver paper decorated with roses.

It was traditional to give the victims a gift of flowers on the last night, or something with flowers on it at least. Probably because flowers never lasted long in Little Hangleton, what with the skewed seasons and general lack of sunlight. Like the offerings themselves.

Lily and James hadn't given her anything, knowing as they did how she preferred presents that were useful. Not like the usual farewell trinkets. Although, she suspected that naming their child after her was a gift in itself.

The gifts were usually something small, a decorative ornament or handwritten card that spoke of the years that once had been and would no longer be. A few years ago, Hermione had given Lily's sister a glass-cut figurine that even now sat on the windowsill in the Evans's house. She hadn't known Petunia very well, but that wasn't the point.

It was all just part of the farewell ritual.

As was the box in her hands.

Hermione had decided, earlier that day, that she wouldn't open most of her gifts. Not everyone did, choosing instead to ask their family or friends to burn them unopened alongside whichever part of them returned. If they were opened, the items either went the way of the sacrifices themselves or, like her gift to Petunia, were left for the family.

She supposed, though, that she would open this one.

Hermione peeled away the paper, revealing a little cardboard box with her name written on the lid in Sirius' elegant scrawl.

She opened the box and saw –

A ring.

As if in a daze, Hermione watched her hand stretch out to shakily pluck the circle of silver from its place and twist it to and fro in the lamplight. The stones – three of them, she noted, a ruby in the middle and a small diamond on either side – gleamed in her fingers, throwing little rainbows over her palm.

She thought back to Sirius, and his words to her an hour ago.

_I was going to do it this week, but that really isn't possible now._

She ended up crying that night after all.

* * *

The next morning dawned cold and still, echoing how Hermione felt inside. She hadn't been able to sleep well at all, tossing and turning as dread anticipation coiled in her gut.

From what little she had been able to discover about the Riddle House, the old owners had been extremely wealthy, and largely kept to themselves. Almost forty years ago, the Riddles died under mysterious circumstances, and ever since then Little Hangleton lived under the house's shadow. And the rumors began.

No one really knew where the monster came from, but it wasn't long before they began sending offerings each year. The first was a teenaged girl named Myrtle, but the victims weren't always children. Sometimes they were quite old – Bathilda Bagshot had been over a hundred when her name was called.

Hermione idly wondered if eventually there wouldn't be anyone left in the whole town. Certainly there were few families left unscarred at this point.

She didn't bother packing much. Few of the offerings lasted even a week, and the record was just under a month.

A few changes of clothes and other supplies, some of her favorite books, two pens, a notebook.

The ring went on her finger.

Hermione entered the kitchen to see her parents once again stiff in their seats. They still didn't say anything. Her mother had clearly been crying earlier, but no tears fell now as she stood jerkily and embraced her daughter. Hermione held on tight for a long moment, then turned and repeated the gesture with her father. Her father kissed Hermione on the forehead, as he always used to do when she was little.

"Hermione –" her mother started to say, but then bit her lip and did not continue.

"Mum, Dad," Hermione managed. Her parents clasped hands and gazed at her solemnly.

Hermione looked around her home one last time, before she sighed deeply, slung her bag over her shoulder, and left without turning back.

Lucius Malfoy was waiting at the door of the Hanged Man when Hermione arrived. He twisted his lips in a pale imitation of the sneer he usually met her with, and she couldn't help but smile in return. It was the duty of the mayor and his family to confirm that the victim actually entered the Riddle House. Lucius would accompany Hermione to the gates, and wait in the road until he saw her step onto the grounds.

"I'm ready," she declared. The words hung between them.

Lucius nodded and extended his arm to her, sad mockery that it was of his marriage to Narcissa Black a few years ago. Together they began the walk up the hill to the Riddle House, and the beast within. When they neared the wrought-iron gates, he stopped, and Hermione let go.

She stared for a moment at the twisted metal, which slowly creaked open under her gaze. Hermione took the time to glance up at the house, imagining as she did the others that had done and would do the same. The Riddle House had its own graveyard, but none of the victims – as far as she knew – were buried there.

The gates gaped wide before her.

She entered.

* * *

_Many thanks to The Fictionist for helping me edit and post this. And for, you know, writing Kisses Cursed in the first place._

_You could, perhaps, say that Petals Fallen is the Kisses Cursed version of the story of the Minotaur, before Theseus saved Athens. Annual tributes and so on.  
__But if you wanted to know what went through my head, it was merely Nameless telling Harry to check the library if he wanted to get anywhere in the 'game'._

_And that made me think of Hermione._


End file.
